Apple a Day
by Dracoqueen22
Summary: An apple a day keeps the doctor away. But Sunstreaker and Sideswipe have no clue what Ratchet has in store for them. The hunters become the hunted. Eventual RatchetxSunstreakerxSideswip e. PerceptorxJazz. WheeljackxProwl. And more.
1. Morning After

a/n: This is a series of short ficlets. The overall story is a romantic comedy between Ratchet and the Twins but other pairings and plots will probably make an appearance. The first chapter was originally a flash fiction that I cleaned up and altered the details to make it fit into G1.**  
**

**Title: Morning After**

**Characters: Implied SunstreakerxRatchetxSideswipe**

**Continuity: G1, first in _Apple a Day _series**

**Rating: T**

**Warning: implied alcohol use, implied mechslash/twincest  
**

* * *

Sunstreaker onlines slowly, systems more or less dragging into their boot sequences instead of leaping sharply into awareness. The last to come online are his optics, and that with great reluctance. His joints feel tight, his vents clogged, and his sensors too responsive for his comfort.

Frag but Wheeljack's special mix of Praxian high grade and Earth's highest octane fuel packs a punch. He'd had half a dozen cubes of it. And Sides'd had more than him.

From their bond, Sunstreaker senses nothing but static. Either Sides has yet to online, or he's feeling substantially worse than Sunstreaker.

Sunstreaker doesn't want to move, but there's a blinking light in the corner of his HUD, reminding him that his shift starts in ten minutes. Which is just enough time to drag his aft to a washrack and try to wash out the aches with the gentlest grade of energon.

Something's lying on his right arm. Or shall he say, Sideswipe. With a grunt, Sunstreaker jerks his arm free, rolls over, and promptly topples off of the berth with a resounding clatter.

Ow. That certainly hadn't helped his systems settle. His tanks roil unpleasantly.

"Huh? Whozawhat'sit?" Sideswipe's mumble floats down from the berth.

"Fraggit! Too early for noise," someone else mutters, sounding grumpy.

Sunstreaker freezes on the floor. Two voices? Slag. This can't be good. He grabs the edge of the berth and drags himself up, bleary optics making out a bright white paintjob just as Sideswipe mumbles, "Who?"

Recognition floods Sunstreaker's sluggish processor and he leaps to his pedes, instantly regretting the too-quick motion when his gyros reel out of equilibrium. "Ratchet!"

Sideswipe jerks upward, sitting up in an instant. "Where?" he demands, and then groans, clutching his helm. "It's too fraggin' bright in here."

"Right here, you halfwit," Ratchet grumbles and with a laborious motion, drags himself upward, squinting around the room. "It's too early for this slag."

Sunstreaker's gapes. "You!" he splutters, pointing at Ratchet with one finger. "You!"

"Me," Ratchet agrees. "And for the record, I'm blaming this on Perceptor."

"Did we...?" Sideswipe trails off, as though unwilling to finish. One hand clumsily gropes at his plating, as though he can tell from touch alone. Which is quite frankly impossible.

Ratchet hauls himself off the berth, looking more spry than either of the twins. "Let me know when your memory cores catch up. I'll be in my med bay," he grumbles, and sweeps out of their room without so much as a by your leave.

"Did he just...?"

"Yeah, I think he did," Sunstreaker replies. And then his HUD starts beeping incessantly. Five minutes now.

"Frag!" He rushes from the room, leaving Sideswipe to deal with the aftermath of... whatever that was. He'll have to deal with this later.

* * *

a/n: I've got at least three more parts coming. And more when the ideas hit (and I find time to write them).

Feedback is welcome!


	2. Morning After Redux

**Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Red Alert, Jazz**

**Continuity: G1, second in _Apple a Day_ series**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: implied mechslash/twincest**

* * *

**Morning After Redux  
**

* * *

His memory core is still full of fuzz, even hours later and halfway through his shift. In fact, Sunstreaker's processor is starting to ache in a not-fun kind of way with the beginnings of overcharge. A hangover as the humans would call it.

And Sideswipe whining over their private comm is not helping at all. Fragger's the lucky one who's off-shift.

-Are you sure you don't remember anything?-

Sunstreaker shifts in his chair, trying to focus on the monitors and failing. Miserably. -_No. _And if you fragging ask me again I'm going to kick your aft so hard you'll taste mud for a week.-

-Harsh, Sunny,- Sidewipe retorts.

-Then stop irritating me.-

There's a long moment of brief, wonderful silence. Sunstreaker contemplates closing his optics just to ease the pain of too-bright lights on his optical sensors. But a quick glance at Red Alert proves he's being watched. Can't get nothing past him. Fraggit.

Sunstreaker mutters under his breath, rolls his aching neck cables, and tries in vain to get comfortable.

-What do you think he meant?- Sideswipe asks, apparently done mulling and back to irritating his brother.

-By what?-

-Blaming Perceptor.-

Sunstreaker raps his fingers across his console, feeling a twitch of aggravation dance through his circuits. Of all the mechs in all the universe, why did Primus have to saddle him with Sideswipe for a twin?

-How the frag should I know?- he demands waspishly.

Sullen disappointment flickers across their twin-bond. -Primus, you're in a mood today.-

Sunstreaker grits his denta with a squeal of metal on metal. -I'm blaming you.-

-Fragging Ratchet is not my fault!- Sideswipe shouts into the comm.

Sunstreaker winces visibly. -Tone it down, glitch.-

-You're the glitch.-

-We're twins, dumbaft.-

-My point is made.- Sideswipe huffs into the comm, like he's about to go into a drawn out sulk the likes of which their fellow Autobots have never seen. -Are you _sure_ you don't remember anything?-

Sunstreaker cuts off the comm without responding to his annoying twit of a brother and huffs. He glares at the monitor, currently cycling through several views of the outer perimeter, where nothing so much as moves. Oh wait. There went a rabbit.

Slag Prowl and his idea of punishment. This is boring!

His processor wanders. He tries in vain to poke his memory circuit into producing a hint of what had happened last night. He remembers the party and the taste of the high grade, sharp and acerbic, hitting his tanks with a punch.

There had been dancing, too. Somehow, Bumblebee had coaxed the other mini-bots into joining him on a table. Sunstreaker blames that on the high grade, too. Mini-frames can't handle it and apparently, neither could frontliners.

He remembers hands on his plating, skillful hands. The heavy ventilations of an overheated frame in the darkness of their quarters. The blue glow of optics. The bright crawl of static across their frames. The ecstasy of an overload that lasts and lasts.

He doesn't remember Ratchet.

But by Primus, does he wish he could.

Movement in his peripheral sensors tugs Sunstreaker out of his musings. He turns, watching as Jazz plops down in the open chair beside him. Instead of speaking, however, the Spec Ops mech simply stares at Sunstreaker. He's grinning, too. One of those smirks that carries great amusement.

Sunstreaker scowls. "What?"

Jazz's grin widens as he lounges in the chair. "So...?" One hand lazily twirls in the air.

"So what?" Sunstreaker demands, optics burning with the force of his glare.

Jazz chuckles, leaning forward conspiratorially. "C'mon, Sunshine. _Details_. Inquiring mechs want to know."

"Don't call me that." Sunstreaker gives the annoying mech – superior officer or not – a disgusted look. "The frag are you talking about?"

"Everyone saw Ratch drag you two out last night," Jazz says, vocals a little louder now, making it easier for those that are unashamedly eavesdropping to hear him. "And I got my good stuff hinging on the details."

Sunstreaker honestly can't answer the question. He doesn't _remember_ last night, fraggit. So he stares at Jazz.

Ratchet had dragged _them_ out? Yergh. They're never going to live this one down.

Jazz's visor flickers, his jaw dropping. "No way."

Sunstreaker looks away, trying to focus on the screen. Monitor duty, yes. He's here, on shift, not supposed to be gossiping with the resident busybody.

"You don't remember!" Jazz exclaims like this is new to Sunstreaker. He laughs, falling back against his chair and laughing even harder.

Everyone's staring now and making no attempt to hide it.

"Frag. Ironhide's not going to believe this. The seducers become the seduced. Classic." Jazz dissolves into chuckles yet again.

A low growl of irritation escapes Sunstreaker before he can stop it. "Are you going to mock me or tell me what you know?" Like the Pit he's going to ask _Ratchet. _

Jazz taps his mouthplate. "Hmm. I was gonna but y'know, I think it's funnier this way." He leaps up from his chair, waggling his fingers at Sunstreaker. "Later."

Sunstreaker snarls, but Jazz is quick, dancing out of reach and making haste from the control room before Sunstreaker can chase him down. And now, he can see that everyone had indeed been watching them.

"What are you looking at?" Sunstreaker demands.

No one replies, their helms swiveling back to the monitors. Red Alert looks faintly annoyed and Blaster appears to be snickering, but no one speaks.

Sunstreaker turns back toward his monitor, a twitch in his circuits, the lingering pain in his processor worse now.

Someone pings him with a personal comm.

-By the way,- Jazz says, his ident code flashing across Sunstreaker's HUD. -White streaks suit your paint job. Just sayin'.-

Jazz cuts off the comm as quickly as he pinged in.

What the frag is he...?

Sunstreaker looks down, staring with horror at the long and broad sweeps of white paint that streak his leg plating. There are smaller transfers on his chestplate, too. He'd walked through the halls like this?

Fraggit it all to the Pit!

* * *

a/n: Still more to come.

Let me know what you thought. Funny or just plain lame?


	3. Hangover

**Title: Hangover**

**Characters: Sideswipe, Smokescreen, Bluestreak, Tracks, Sunstreaker**

**Continuity: G1, fourth in the Apple a Day series  
**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: cursing, much talk about interfacing**

* * *

Ten minutes after Ratchet flees the scene of the crime and Sunstreaker abandons him, Sideswipe musters enough energy to drag his aching carcass out of the berth.

Obviously, he'd consumed more than his twin, considering his state of utter agony. His tanks are churning. His sensors are bombarding his HUD with uncomfortable input. And there's a tight ache in his circuits. Like he'd spent the night overloading again and again and again...

His memory core responds with errors, static, and obvious glitches when he gives it a curious ping.

Sideswipe groans and staggers to the door, hoping some nice low grade might give him a reset. It's _bright_ out in the hallway. He dials down his optics. On second thought, he dials down his audials, too.

The wall is his best friend right now, supporting him as he drags his aft to the Rec Room. One hand slides along the bright orange metal. Who, in their right processor, would pick _orange_? Oh yeah, Grapple. No accounting for taste then.

"Sides!"

The red twin winces as the shout assaults his sensitive audials. He turns to greet Smokescreen when an arm suddenly crashes down over his shoulders, a weight draping across his left side.

"Hey, Smoker," Sideswipe says, staggering and dredging up a grin for one of his favorite partners-in-crime.

"You look like the Pit," Smokescreen replies with an assessing glance from Sideswipe's helm to his pedes. "Guess you finally met something you couldn't handle."

Sideswipe sags a little more. Has Smokescreen _always_ been this heavy? "No way. I'm just feeling lazy today."

"I call bullshit." Smokescreen bears more of his weight down on Sideswipe, to prove his point.

Sideswipe wobbles and flares out an arm to compensate.

Grinning, Smokescreen leans closer, until his olfactory sensor is practically pressed to Sideswipe's shoulder. "And is that ozone I detect?"

Sideswipe pointedly looks himself over from helm to pede before looking back at Smokescreen with utter innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Right," the diversionary specialist drawls. "And Tracks didn't see Ratchet hightailing it out of your quarters twenty minutes ago either."

Oh. Right. Ratchet.

What the frag's that all about?

Sideswipe helm throbs and he groans, tanks churning. Smokescreen steers them into the rec room. This time of the morning, it should be empty. Sideswipe's luck is not so great however and it's pretty much packed with every off-duty mech.

Oh. And Smokescreen's still waiting for him to say something.

Better to pretend he knows what Smokescreen's implying. Mech can sniff out humiliating info like it was high grade energon.

"Oh. Ratchet." Sideswipe inclines his helm, wobbling toward the energon dispenser and grabbing himself a cube of something easy. "Wonder where he got off to?"

Smokescreen bursts into laughter, slapping Sideswipe across the back. "Cool as ice, aren't you? Especially when every mech in here saw Ratchet doing the seducing."

Sideswipe scoffs, slumping down into the first available chair. "No way."

"Yes way," Bluestreak says, sliding in next to Sideswipe as Smokescreen brackets the red twin on the other side. "I took image captures _and_ video just so I could prove it." He nudges Sideswipe with an elbow. "And we always thought it to be a joke when we said Ratchet's the only one capable of wrangling you two."

"And now it's time for details," Tracks adds, appearing out of nowhere to sit across the table from Sideswipe, grinning like an idiot. He must have just come off shift, meaning Sunstreaker probably replaced him. "You know what they say about medics, right?" He winks.

Sideswipe feels a little trapped, surrounded if you will. He gulps down half his cube of low grade, biting back a groan as it hits his unsettled tanks with a gurgle. "A gentlemech never kisses and tells," he hedges.

Smokescreen arches an orbital ridge. "Since when have you been a gentlemech?"

"Since when have you opted not to boast about your conquests?" Tracks adds.

Bluestreak laughs. "Yeah, I remember when you and Sunstreaker decided to welcome me to the crew. Best welcome I ever got. Since when do you play coy?"

"Since now," Sideswipe bluffs and downs the rest of his cube, frantically pinging his memory core for details. An image. _Something_.

He gets a blur. A snippet of sound, Ratchet's voice moaning his designation. The sensation of ecstasy sparking across his frame. A glossa on his neck cables, a sharp nip of denta. A teasing look in Ratchet's optics.

Judging by the ache in his circuits, Sideswipe can only assume he'd had a good time. But fraggit, he can't _remember_.

Then Tracks looks at him, something shrewd in optics. "Primus!" he exclaims, with a tone that's half-incredulous and half-ecstatic. "You don't remember!" He half-rises, pointing at Sideswipe in sudden revelation. "He completely blew your circuits, didn't he?"

"Really?" Bluestreak's doorwings perk upward in obvious interest. "He did? Sunstreaker, too? Wow! I'm jealous, so jealous. You two always have the best luck."

Smokescreen laughs so hard that all the mechs in the rec room turn and stare, which includes several minibots, the entire Aerialbot gestalt, three-fifths of the Protectobots and an assemblage of scientists – including Perceptor.

"How many circuits did he fry?" Smokescreen demands, slapping the table in his hilarity. "No wonder you look like slag!"

Sideswipe groans and puts his helm down on the table, burying his faceplate in his arms. He has no words. None. And apparently, he doesn't have any friends, either. Just mechs who are going to tease him to offlining.

-Hey, Sunny,- he says, trying to ping his twin on their private comm line.

He doesn't get an answer. Fragger's ignoring him.

-Sunny?-

"Two cubes of Polyhexian says he's gonna need a circuit board replaced," Smokescreen says.

Tracks chuckles. "A tin of Iacon's Finest says that he'll be begging for more."

Bluestreak leans forward, across the table. "Oo! Let me in on that one. I have two cubes of Wheeljack's special to put up for grabs!"

"Guys," Sideswipe says, his words muffled against the tabletop. "I'm right here."

An elbow digs into his backplate as Smokescreen leans over him, using his frame as a rest. "Oh, we know. Is Wheeljack's special from before or after he was banned from using potentially explosive chemicals?"

"Before," Bluestreak informs them smugly.

"I am _so_ in," Tracks announces.

-Come on, Sunny. Talk to me!-

His helm aches. He could really use some kind of medical help. Maybe if he asks Hoist nicely...?

"Fair warning, it's toxic," Bluestreak says with a cheerful chirp. "C'mon, Sideswipe. I don't want to lose this cube. How many circuits _did_ Ratchet blow?"

-_Sunny_!-

-Don't call me that,- his brother finally responds with a surge of irritation passing across their link. -What the frag do you want?-

Where's a Decepticon attack when you need one?

Sideswipe groans. -Do you remember anything from last night?-

-Of course not.-

_Frag_.

He's never going to live this down.

* * *

a/n: Oh, I'm having too much fun with this.

I'd love to know what you think! More?


	4. Walk of Shame

**a/n: Big thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed so far. I appreciate the support!  
**

**Title: Walk of Shame**

**Characters: Ratchet, Ironhide**

**Continuity: G1, fourth in the _Apple a Day _series**

**Rating: T**

* * *

If he hadn't been waiting around the corner, eager to catch Ratchet in a compromising position, Ironhide might have missed this.

But he _had_ been waiting, so he had seen Ratchet first stalk out of the twin's quarters, then creep through the hallways, avoiding all contact with other mechs, and head straight for the medbay.

Ironhide had followed him because this sort of event is monumental. And perfect fodder for teasing later.

Ratchet must be distracted because he doesn't notice Ironhide all but stalking him. The medic stomps into his medbay and heads straight for the private washracks. Must have something to do with the long streaks of bright yellow and red that give evidence to a really, really good time.

If he'd been human, it would be the equivalent of coming home wearing last night's clothing, hair a mess, and missing a sock. Ironhide grins.

Leaning in the open doorway, Ironhide watches as Ratchet turns on the spray and starts scrubbing at his plating, attacking the streaks of misplaced paint with a vengeance. The medic is also muttering to himself, mostly a string of cursewords and self-castigation.

This is the perfect time to announce himself.

"Well, well, well," Ironhide says and his grin stretches wider as the sound of his vocals make Ratchet startle and whirl around. "What have we here?"

The medic's mouth opens and closes before he stubbornly turns back toward the spray of the washrack and says nothing.

Vastly amused, Ironhide remains undaunted. "Yanno," he adds, watching as Ratchet scrubs and scrubs at a long swipe of yellow paint on his thigh. "The humans have a term fer this. They call it the walk of shame."

Ironhide also makes certain to take several image captures. For bargaining later of course. Never know when one might need info on the Hatchet.

Ratchet throws a glare over his shoulder, the gleam in his optics threatening payback on Ironhide.

He allows himself to be worried but only for a second. Ratchet would never hurt him. Permanently, at least, because then he'd have to fix the damage.

"Nice shade of yellow," Ironhide adds, staring pointedly at the interesting splotch that mars Ratchet's backplate. "Goes well with the red." A red, by the way, which doesn't match Ratchet's own choice in paint.

Ratchet starts to attack a streak of yellow on his left arm. "Are you through?"

Ironhide chuckles. "Just gettin' started."

The medic huffs, muttering to himself. "Nosy old rust bucket."

"Yer older than me."

"By two whole orns!" Ratchet splutters, throwing another glare over his shoulders. It lacks heat, however, and emanates more embarrassment than angry.

"Still older." Ironhide looks Ratchet over from helm to pede pointedly, adding a leer. "Robbin' the cradle, eh? Didn't know that was yer flavor of energon."

Ratchet whirls and tosses the soapy scrub rag at Ironhide, forcing him to duck.

"Oh. Testy," Ironhide teases, ducking another wet projectile. "Maybe the twins weren't doin' it right if yer still this wound up."

Ratchet's hands curl into fists at his side as he stalks toward Ironhide, spluttering. "You... you..."

Ironhide shakes his helm. "Can't teach a young mech old tricks, I guess. Am I right?"

It's easy enough to dodge the punch Ratchet tosses at him. Mech's not seriously trying to injure, otherwise Ironhide would be in some trouble.

"Geeze, Ratch," Ironhide huffs, ducking one blow and catching Ratchet's wrist before the medic can throw another. "Are ya mad ya berthed the twins or embarrassed?"

Blue optics blaze at him before cycling down in annoyance. "I blame Perceptor," Ratchet growls.

Ironhide chuckles. "I don't think it's his fault ya finally went after what you wanted. Speaking of which... why now?"

Ratchet looks away, a clear indication of his embarrassment. He mumbles something that Ironhide doesn't catch.

"What was that?"

"... lost a bet," Ratchet spits out, a bit louder this time. "Perceptor's fault."

Ironhide supposes the only way he's going to get a full explanation is to actually ask Perceptor.

"Okay..." Ironhide releases his hold on Ratchet's wrist and the medic draws away from him, still dripping water. "Why the twins?"

Ratchet scowls. "None of your business."

Touchy, touchy. Maybe there's more to this than a one-night sharing of the berth.

Ironhide stares at Ratchet. "Ratch, are you planning to... court them?" He can't hide the incredulity in his tone.

Not that there's anything wrong with Sideswipe or Sunstreaker, but aiming for permanence? Ironhide would have never guessed it. The medic with a wrench and the terror twins? It seems an ill match.

The medic pushes past him without a word. Ironhide turns to follow, noticing the way Ratchet's armor is clamped tightly to his frame, his energy field equally contained.

"Ratch?"

"It's a stupid idea," Ratchet all but snarls, bristling with indignation. "I should've never considered it." He stomps around his medbay, prepping berths and organizing tools in case of injury. "Frag Perceptor and Wheeljack both!"

Ironhide's optics cycle out in surprise. "That's a yes then," he says musingly. "Primus, Ratch, ya don't do anything by halves, do ya?"

Ratchet slams a welder down onto a table, glaring at Ironhide. "Are you going to help me or not?"

Help? Since when did Ironhide get drafted into this? Well, he supposes that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are under his command, being frontliners and all, and he ought to know more about them than any other mech. Except where he doesn't.

He spreads his hands, palms down. "Depends on what you need from me. I ain't deliverin' any sparkly, poetic love letters."

"I think I have more taste than that," Ratchet retorts with a roll of his optics, but at least the bristliness in his plating starts to fade.

"Or flowers," Ironhide adds, waggling a forefinger at the medic. "Nor boxes of energon goodies or mix tapes or anythin' else stupidly sappy. Yer gonna have to be cleverer than that if ya think those two idiots are gonna get it."

Ratchet snorts. "Don't you think I know that? … Wait. Mix tapes?"

Ironhide rolls his shoulders. "Dunno. Something Spike did for Carly. She seemed to like it."

Amusement replaces some of the ire. "I'll let Sunstreaker know you compared him to Carly."

"Not in so many words!"

Ratchet chuckles. "Then you'll help me?"

Ironhide supposes he doesn't have anything better to do. Besides, this is the kind of blackmail info a mech dreams of. And he'll have it on the Hatchet? Even better!

He grins. "Course I will. What's the plan?"

Ratchet's optics glint and he smirks. A rather evil smirk that would have made Sideswipe or Jazz for that matter, very, very proud.

* * *

a/n: More to come! I just have to get off my aft and write it.

Let me know what you thought!


	5. Comparing Notes

a/n: The updates for this are going to be a bit slower than they were when I started, but I'm still working on it. I promise. Enjoy!

**Title: Comparing Notes**

**Universe: G1, part 5 of Apple a Day**

**Characters: SunstreakerxSideswipe, mentions of Ratchet and Hoist**

**Rating: M**

**Warnings for twincest, pnp, tactile**

* * *

By the time Sunstreaker drags his exhausted aft back to his shared quarters with Sideswipe, he's ready to collapse on his berth, cursing Prowl out the whole time. He's not even the one who started that fight!

He opens the door and within seconds, is glomped by his brother, who's doing a rather accurate impression of Bluestreak after having one too many overloads.

"Look what I got!" Sideswipe gushes, throwing his arms around Sunstreaker and giving him an enthusiastic hug.

"You've been hanging out with Bluestreak too much," Sunstreaker grunts, trying to shove his hyper brother away. "Get off."

Sideswipe squeezes him harder. "No! I want to hug you. I want affection!"

What. The. Frag.

Sunstreaker growls, prying his brother's arms away from his frame before the red menace leaves him covered in scratches. "Affection? Seriously. What the slag is wrong with you?"

Sideswipe giggles. Yes, he actually giggles. "Nothing! I'm fine. Everything's just fine. It's dandy. I'm great!... How are you?" He beams brightly and tries to hug Sunstreaker again.

He gives his twin a confused look. "Did someone taint your energon?" Because if so, they were in for a world of hurt. Sunstreaker does not want a clingy brother right now. "Wait. Shouldn't you be hungover?" Like Sunstreaker still is?

Sideswipe rolls his optics, playfully slapping Sunstreaker on the shoulder. "Naww. Hoist gave me something. Fixed me right up! I didn't see Ratchet anywhere though." He frowns in drugged thoughtfulness. "Wonder where he's hiding."

Great. Hoist must have overdosed him. Which means Sideswipe was acting like a glitch more than he usually does. Overdosing Sideswipe is a common defense mechanism for a lot of bots. First Aid does it, too.

Sunstreaker sighs and pushes past his twin, heading deeper into their quarters, where he collapses with much joy atop their over-large berth. What a fragging day.

"Bro?"

"Not now, Sideswipe," Sunstreaker says, his words muffled by the padding of the berth. "I just want to recharge and forget this morning happened."

"Why would you want to do a silly thing like that?"

He hears a loud scraping sound. Then the berth jostles.

Sunstreaker turns his helm to see Sideswipe perched on a chair, hanging on the side of the bed, his chin propped on his palms. That's it. Tomorrow, Sunstreaker's going to make Hoist's life very unpleasant. Hyper Sideswipe does not for a happy Sunstreaker make.

"So," Sideswipe says with a sharp snap of the word. "You going to tell me what you remember from last night?" His optics all but sparkle at Sunstreaker, and they are definitely brighter than usual. From one overcharge to another.

"Not much," Sunstreaker grumbles, scooting over enough on the berth that Sideswipe could climb up beside him if he so wished. "Bits and pieces."

"Me, too." Sideswipe lays his helm on his arm and reaches out, one hand stroking Sunstreaker's arm over and over and over, like he's fascinated by the simple motion. "But maybe we remember different bits and pieces and if we put 'em all together, we'll have a whole picture."

He suddenly sits up straight, a lightbulb turning on above his helm. "Like a puzzle!"

…

Yep. Definitely giving Hoist a talking to.

"I don't think it works like that, Sides."

"But it could." Sideswipe grins and suddenly clambers up onto the berth. "Swap cords with me. Give it a try."

"You're just overcharged and running hot," Sunstreaker grumbles, but he rolls over, his hands finding his twin's pelvic arch.

Sideswipe's smile turns wicked as he straddles Sunstreaker, his glossa running over his lower lip. "Guilty as charged. Ya gonna pass me a cable or not?"

Curiousity wins over Sunstreaker's lingering high grade induced overcharge. He _wants_ to know just what had happened with Ratchet last night. And if combining his and Sideswipe's scattered memories answer even half the questions, he'll consider this a success. Well, and the fact that interfacing Sideswipe is hardly a chore.

Still, better not let the red-plated idiot recognize he had a good idea for once. He'll gloat about it for weeks.

Sunstreaker reaches for his interface panel, slowly unspooling the cable. A smile tugs at his lips as Sideswipe watches him with hungry optics, shifting minutely atop Sunstreaker. His inner thigh plating rubs against Sunstreaker's hips, eliciting a light, crackling charge.

"Easy now," Sunstreaker says, holding his twin's gaze as he reaches for Sideswipe's interfacing panel, which has already been popped in eager anticipation. "There's a point to this remember?"

Sideswipe shivers as Sunstreaker's cable clicks home, and eagerly unspools his own. "There's always a point."

A tingle dances down Sunstreaker's backstrut as Sideswipe plugs into his interface port as well, and the usual trickle of Sideswipe's emotions becomes a steady stream of nearly incomprehensible data.

A small moan escapes Sideswipe, his optics shuttering as he reaches down, bracing his hands on Sunstreaker's chassis.

Sunstreaker arches up, jostling his brother. "Focus, you glitch."

"Not as easy as it sounds, bro," Sideswipe retorts with another visible shiver of his plating. "All right. Here's what I got."

The first of the images trickles across their connection. Sunstreaker groans, his processor suddenly assaulted by a deluge of sensation.

"_Is that a challenge?" Ratchet's gruff vocals undermine the sparkle of invitation in his optics as he slides into the open seat at the table. _

_Already sottted half-way to Sunday, Sideswipe grins and chugs down another half-cube. "Show us what ya got, Ratch." _

Sunstreaker's optics flicker as Sideswipe's hands start running over his plating, years of familiarity ensuring that he embraces every sweet spot. He struggles to focus himself, bundling up one of his own clearer memories and shipping it across the link.

_Someone's pede is touching his own. Sunstreaker arches an orbital ridge. Really, Sideswipe? Footsie? _

_He sneaks a glance under the table and sees an entirely white pede without a hint of black or red. Not Sideswipe. What the frag? **Ratchet**? _

Sunstreaker cries out as Sideswipe grabs a motion cable and tugs, a sharp flick of pain shattering the pulse-pulse-pulse of pleasure and only serving to amp up the sensation. This isn't exactly what he had in mind when he said share their memories, but by Primus, he's not about to ask Sideswipe to stop.

Not when the memories are coming faster and faster, disjointed and disconnected, Sunstreaker struggling to send as quickly as he's receiving.

_Sideswipe is wobbling as he gets up from the table, optics bright. Sunstreaker's no better, his cooling fans struggling to dispel the extra heat from overcharge. And Ratchet is there, too, somehow, smirking at both of them. _

_And then they are in the hallway, Ratchet's hands on Sunstreaker's plating, shoving him against the wall. Sunstreaker is moaning, helm hitting the wall as a skilled glossa attacks his neck cables. Sideswipe is next to both of them, his hands tracing paths of staticky charge over yellow and white plating. _

_Then there's a berth and Sideswipe is bouncing on top of it. He's giggling of all things, reaching for Ratchet, pulling the medic down on top of him. Sunstreaker watches the both of them with hungry optics, listening to the sounds of their systems and their pleasure. _

_Ratchet's looking up at him now, optics so very blue. "You just going to watch or are you going to participate?" he demands. _

_And Sideswipe makes a sound that better resembles a needy whimper because Ratchet's not paying attention to him anymore. He arches up against the medic, wanting contact, and the sight of his twin so very needy makes something in Sunstreaker burst. _

_He's clambering onto the berth without an ounce of grace, not sure where he even wants to start. He just knows he's hungry, **starving**, and what he wants is right here in front of him. _

"Oh, slag," Sideswipe moans, twitching atop Sunstreaker, his fingers digging into Sunstreaker's seams. "That's so fragging hot."

Sunstreaker has no words. He can only nod in agreement, clutch his twin tighter, feeling his spark pulse and throb within him. The push of pleasure and memories across their connection continues, burying him.

_Ratchet hooks a finger in his chassis, dragging him in for a heated kiss. Sunstreaker moans, reaching for the medic, listening to Sideswipe whine beneath both of them about being ignored and crushed. _

_The temperature in the room has reached uncomfortable levels, their three cooling fans not nearly enough to dispel the heat. Static electricity dances between three different plating shades, igniting pleasure through Sunstreaker's sensory net. _

_He grabs Ratchet's hand, wanting to put rumor to test and mouthing the tip of a long digit. His optics are focused on the medic, engine revving as Ratchet moans. _

_Sideswipe's tired of being ignored. He reaches up, buries his hand in Ratchet's pelvic assembly, and strokes several sensory lines. The reaction is immediate, the medic arching with a loud cry of need. _

_Sunstreaker's never seen anything more arousing in his entire life. _

The crackle of overload shoves Sunstreaker out of the disjointed stream of memories, his entire frame writhing as pleasure streaks through his systems. Electricity dances from his plating, snapping at Sideswipe's, who's moaning as overload takes him, too.

The transfer of files slows to a trickle, not that there's much left to send. Sunstreaker's given up all the bits and pieces he remembers, and Sideswipe's done, too.

Sideswipe's the first one to reach for their cables with fingers that are noticeably shaky. He disconnects them gently, and then tips over onto the berth, a noisy exvent echoing in the room.

"So that's what happened," he says after a moment.

Sunstreaker tips his helm back against the berth. Holy Primus. He has no words. None. Who would have known the old medic had it in him?

"Slag," Sideswipe adds, flopping over and poking Sunstreaker in a sideseam. "We've got to do that again."

Sunstreaker makes a disbelieving noise. "Really, Sides. You saw how overcharged Ratchet was. We got lucky."

"Says you." Sideswipe pokes him again, just to be an annoying glitch obviously.

Sunstreaker gives his twin a flat look. "Ratchet inviting us to his berth again is about as likely as Megatron and Thundercracker being bondmates."

A look of contemplation flashes over Sideswipe's faceplate, along with a flash of disgust at the unwelcome image. "You might have a point, bro. Harsh though." He snuggles close, most of his earlier hyperactivity missing. Thank Primus.

"Truth," Sunstreaker corrects. "It was a one time thing. Better save the memory files because it's not happening again."

* * *

a/n: Got two more ideas for this series, one of which is halfway written. More pairings are going to crop up, too.

Reviews are welcome and fuel my writing fingers. :)


	6. The Game Begins

**Title: The Game Begins**

**Universe: G1, Apple a Day part six  
**

**Characters: Sideswipe, Sunstreaker**

**Rated: K+**

**Warnings: None**

**Description: In which Sideswipe exercises caution.  
**

* * *

When he comes back to their shared quarters after a long day of patrolling in the wet and muck, with a whiny Tracks as his patrol partner, there's nothing Sideswipe wants more than a hot shower and to fall into his berth.

He keys open the door, pulls the lights up to half-power and slogs through the accumulated mess on their floor toward the berth. He tips forward, landing faceplate first on the soft plush of the berth.

Something taps against his arm.

Sideswipe turns his helm, optics squinting at the innocent-looking box sitting on the berth. It's brown, cardboard he thinks, and there's a cheerful red bow wrapped around it. Also, there's a tag.

He sits up, curious and excited. He can't think of a reason why anyone would be sending them a present. No human holidays. No Cybertronian holidays.

Sideswipe reaches for the gift with visible glee only to stop, fingers hovering in mid-air.

It is a well-known fact that Sideswipe occasionally likes to engage in prank wars. There are a few bots on this base who owe him one or a dozen. This could be a prank.

He rises up on his pedes and then back down again, indecisive. He crouches down, moves around the box, inspects it from all angles. He turns up his audials; no sounds of possible bombs or explosively messy contents.

Sideswipe frowns, bombarding the box with a few scans. They all come back clean. Nothing poisonous. Nothing explosive. It's not moving so there can't be anything living inside. His irrational fear of hamsters is still a closely guarded secret...

Sideswipe straightens. He's a frontliner, fraggit. He's not going to be afraid of a box!

He reaches for it again, turning the box with ridiculous care so that he can read the namecard attached to the happy bow.

"_For the two idiots in hopes that they'll keep themselves from being scrapped for a day so I can get some fragged rest. Enjoy." _

It's from Ratchet.

Sideswipe's optics round and he takes a step back. His wariness snaps up another notch. The frag? Why would Ratchet send them anything?

He's not sure he wants to open it. Sideswipe tentatively pokes the box. The cheerful bow jiggles.

All right. Plan B.

-Uh, Sunny?-

-Don't fragging call me that!-

Someone's in a slag poor mood today. -If I told you Ratchet sent us a gift today, would you believe me?-

There's a long moment of silence before his twin responds, -What the frag are you talking about, Sideswipe?-

-There's a box on our berth from Ratchet.-

A huff of annoyance and curiosity comes across their bond. -What's in it?-

Sideswipe scratches at his faceplate. -I don't know.-

-You fraggin' glitch! Open the box!-

Sideswipe glares at the gift. -No, duh, Sunstreaker. The thought never occurred to me. Oh yeah, except for the fact that it could be a trap! Or a prank! Or dangerous!- He throws up his hands, though Sunstreaker can't see the gesture.

-Don't be a coward.-

He is absolutely not a coward. Caution doesn't make him a coward! How many times has Prowl tried to knock that into his helm?

-Fine,- Sideswipe snarls, snatching the box off the berth. -I'll open it.-

Before he can convince himself otherwise, Sideswipe rips off the outer paper layer and throws the bow over his shoulder. The box has been sealed with a few strips of scotch tape, easy enough to snap. Sideswipe drags the edge of a finger over the tape.

The four flaps of the lid pop up a fraction once freed from the tape. Nothing leaps out of the box to attack. Sideswipe's spark skips a pulse or two.

-Well?- Sunstreaker prompts impatiently.

Sideswipe ignores his twin for a moment. He carefully sets the box on the floor, peels back the four flaps, then circles around the box again. He peers into it, flicking on his headlights to illuminate the contents.

Something red and round. Something flat and rectangular. And something cube-like and silver. Another hasty scan comes back negative for poisonous or explosive materials.

Sideswipe, daring to be brave again, reaches into the package and pulls out the three items. He stares at them blankly.

-Sideswipe! What is it?- Sunstreaker demands. -I swear to Primus that if I have to come down there...-

-A datapad,- Sideswipe answers, rather perplexed. -A tin of that special wax you like. And for some reason, an apple.-

For a long moment, nothing but silence buzzes across their connection.

Sideswipe lets the quiet fester as he powers up the datapad, cycling through the listed documents. His jaw drops. There's nothing but detective mysteries and thrillers on here. Stuff like Sherlock Holmes and stories by John Grisham and other human writers. How Ratchet had gotten these books on the datapad baffles Sideswipe. He would have had to painstakingly scan each and every one, or at least convince Spike and Chip to help him.

Whoa.

-An apple?- Sunstreaker finally manages to splutter.

-Yeah.- Sideswipe pauses as he flicks through the multitudes of novels on the nearly full datapad. -Uhh. Why would Ratchet send us presents?-

-How the frag should I know!-

Sideswipe winces at the volume of his twin's reply. Sunstreaker is not being helpful at all. Someone must have scratched his paint or something. Luckily, they have a fresh new tin of his favorite wax now, certain to polish away that bad mood.

-We could ask him,- Sideswipe suggests.

A rough laugh echoes across their comm. -I'll leave that particular risk to you.- Sunstreaker abruptly cuts off their connection, leaving Sideswipe alone in his contemplations.

He honestly doesn't know what Ratchet's thinking. A present? Not a prank? And why the apple?

Shaking his helm, Sideswipe decides it's in his best interest to – what's the human phrase, 'not look a gift in the mouth'? He grabs the datapad, throws himself on his berth, and opens the first file. _Sherlock Holmes: Hound of the Baskervilles. _

Sweet.

* * *

a/n: Next part we found out another pairings that came about by this "bet".

Reviews feed the muses and are most welcome!


	7. Placing Blame

a/n: I fail at writing Perceptor, but I suppose practice makes perfect. I shall keep trying. Enjoy!**  
**

**Title: Placing Blame**

**Universe: G1, Apple a Day, part seven  
**

**Characters: PerceptorxJazz, Ratchet, Wheeljack**

**Rating: T**

* * *

"I blame you."

Perceptor nearly drops a test tube. He carefully sets down the slim vial and turns around, not surprised to find Ratchet standing in the doorway of his laboratory.

"Good afternoon, Ratchet," he says pleasantly. "You appear well-rested and fully energized today."

Ratchet points at Perceptor's faceplate, his expression one of accusal. "I. Blame. You."

"In regards to what?" Contrary to proper belief, Perceptor knows how to play dumb when the situation calls for it.

Ratchet, however, isn't buying it. "You're not Jazz. That look isn't going to work for me."

Scrap. Busted.

Time for another plan: distraction.

"I hardly see why your decision to act upon an emotional impulse has anything to do with me," Perceptor replies, though a wise, battle-ready part of him is slowly backing away from the irate medic and carefully putting a table between himself and sudden danger.

Ratchet's armor fluffs and settles again, a clear indication of his growing ire. "If you hadn't polished some bearings and cornered Jazz, I wouldn't have been forced to meet my end of the deal," Ratchet growls.

Perceptor cycles his optics, looking at the medic. "Then you are experiencing regret?"

Ratchet pauses in the midst of chasing Perceptor around the table, then scowls as he crosses his arms. "... No."

"Well then." Perceptor smiles brightly, ignoring the warning flashes of danger his logic center is giving him. "I fail to see the problem."

Now, Ratchet is starting to look flustered. "It's the twins!" he says, with flailing arms, like that's all the excuse he needs.

Strangely devious, Perceptor nods in commiseration. "Yes, I do believe they were the focus of the wager." And now, for the cog in the gears. "Were they unskilled in the berth?"

It's not often one gets to see Ratchet speechless. Perceptor takes a vid capture, just so he can share it with Jazz later, and watches as Ratchet splutters. More arm flailing occurs.

"No! I-"

"Oh!" Perceptor exclaims in sudden, fake understanding. "Perhaps you experienced some malfunction then? It's perfectly alright, Ratchet. Most older models suffer these issues sooner or later. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Ratchet gapes. Literally. His jaw drops and he stares at Perceptor. "I didn't... You... I'm not impotent!" The last is shouted, the words echoing around the lab.

Wheeljack chooses this moment to pop his helm into the room, looking about warily, though there's a hint of wicked glee in his optics. "Uh, Ratch? You wanna tone it down? You just sent the minibots scurrying for the hills."

Ratchet turns a frosty glare onto his best friend.

"Oh, don't mind him," Perceptor says, still with that fakely pleasant tone. "He's having interfacing difficulties."

Wheeljack's indicators flash a sympathetic gold. "That would put anyone in a foul mood. What's the problem? Couldn't work up a charge?"

Perceptor can always trust Wheeljack to want in on a good joke. Especially at Ratchet's expense.

Ratchet's faceplate flushes with heat. His hands ball into fists. His optics blaze with anger. He's so speechless he's spitting static at them.

And then, he draws up straight, tilts his helm, and whirls on a pede, stomping from the lab. Not so much as a threat or a curse or a splutter. Trying, Perceptor supposes, to keep his dignity intact.

It's not until the storm of Ratchet righteousness is completely gone from the lab that Perceptor and Wheeljack dissolve into juvenile giggles.

"You're terrible," Wheeljack says, his indicators flashing a myriad of shades.

Perceptor leans heavily against his table. "He shouldn't blame his indecisiveness on me."

"Aw, that's just how Ratch is. He doesn't like to admit... well, anything." Wheeljack levers himself up off the floor where he'd let himself sink. "I should probably go after him. Make sure he's not leaving rampant chaos in his wake."

"Yes. Save the minibots," Perceptor calls after the engineer.

Another laugh, more like a giggle actually, bubbles up from Wheeljack before he, too, is gone. Perceptor is once again left alone in his laboratory. He consults his chronometer. Less than five minutes had passed.

Distractions, distractions.

He turns back to his experiment in progress with a tiny frown. His chain of thought has been completely severed. He reaches for the beakers of chemicals, scanning them to identify their current configuration.

"What's this I hear about bein' cornered?"

This time, Perceptor does drop one of the test tubes. It shatters on the floor, spilling out a pale liquid everywhere. Luckily, it's nothing particularly dangerous, but still!

He whirls. "Jazz!"

Said mech grins, languid and completely at ease as he reclines in a chair. How and when he'd entered Perceptor's lab will probably remain a mystery forever. Actually, knowing Jazz, Perceptor assumes he's been here all along.

"Should probably clean that up," Jazz replies with his usual lazy drawl. "Might be toxic, ya know."

"It's not," Perceptor huffs, heat flooding his faceplates. "Why must you insist on startling me?"

"Because it's fun?"

"You should consider redefining your idea of entertainment." Perceptor turns back around, hunting for a cleaning rag of some kind.

"And ya could stand ta have a little more." There's a noticeable pause, Jazz's tone taking on a note of seriousness. "Or is that what sharin' my berth was 'bout? A night of fun?"

Perceptor abandons his search, a queer sensation in his spark, a mix of terror and longing and dread and anticipation. "You think I am the sort to berth hop, casual as I please?"

"Lot of mechs are."

"Well, I'm not." Perceptor bristles, though he's not sure why, and turns to face the saboteur, who's looking as serious as Perceptor has ever seen him.

Come to think of it, Jazz's expression closely resembles the one he'd bore the night Perceptor had kissed him out of the blue and then subsequently dragged Jazz to the nearest berth. Oh, the high grade and the bet had given him courage, but he'd still been shaking in his transistors.

Jazz tilts his helm, his arms braced along the edge of the table. "By the way ya crept out of the berth, I couldn't help but wonder."

Shame colors Perceptor's faceplate and he buries himself in his hands. "I apologize," he says, voice muffled by his hands. "That was incredibly disgraceful of me."

"I'm a forgivin' mech," Jazz replies, and then there's a gentle touch on Perceptor's hands, pulling them away from his face. "Provided I get an explanation or three. Mebbe a confession?"

A confession? How very human-like of him to think so.

Nevertheless, Perceptor's spark performs a little happy-skip within his chassis. "I have had an interest in you for quite some time, Jazz," he admits, much to his own mortification. "Though only recently did I work up the spirit to actually approach you."

"Yeah, I heard. Somethin' bout a bet." Jazz grins, his visor lighting up with a cheerful flash of blue. "So if I said, Perceptor, why don't you come to the rec room and join me fer a cube, what would ya say?"

"I've already refueled," he answers honestly, but a smile curls his lips. "But I would enjoy the socialization."

Jazz looks at him for a long moment before he bursts into laughter, fingers squeezing around Perceptor's. "Fine. I'll drink and ya can talk."

"It's a date."

* * *

a/n: Rare pairings, ahoy! This one and many more will be cropping up in this fic. Hold on to your thrusters, folks, cause there won't be a familiar common pairing to be had. *rubs hands together out of glee*

With that said, I hope you got at least a giggle out of this. I had too much fun writing it. Got two more ideas on tap, just got to type them up and polish them. I have no idea when and where this fic is ending. :)

Reviews are very, very welcome.


	8. Poking Hatchets with Sticks

a/n: I do hope that you enjoy this update as much as I enjoyed writing it. Also, behold another rare pairing!

Beta'ed by myself alone. I won't be offended if you point out grammatical mistakes.

**Title: Poking Hatchets with Sticks**

**Universe: G1, Apple a Day verse**

**Characters: Ratchet, Wheeljack, Prowl**

**Rating: T**

**Warning: Language, Light groping**

**Description: Takes place directly after _Placing Blame. _Wheeljack has a talent for stirring up trouble. Prowl's amused. Ratchet is not.**

* * *

Ratchet moves awfully quick when he's angry.

He's out of sight by the time Wheeljack leaves Perceptor's lab, with only a stream of devastation in his wake. Mostly in the form of a few minibots who had the misfortune of walking in the hall when Ratchet passed.

He'd bowled through them as though they weren't there.

Brawn had a fist raised, like he was halfway considering getting some revenge, but hesitated. Wise mech. One does not rile the Hatchet and live to tell the tale.

Though, Wheeljack smirks, that's exactly what he's planning to do.

He has a fair idea of where Ratchet is going, and his suspicions are confirmed when he approaches the medbay, only for First Aid to come barreling out, his visor flashing with a harried look.

"I think Ratchet needs to be alone," First Aid says, making no attempt to hide that he's trying to put as much distance between himself and his irascible mentor as possible. "He's... uh..." First Aid wrung his fingers together, at a loss for words.

Sympathetic, Wheeljack lays a calming hand on the Protectobot's shoulder "Don't worry, kid. I'll take care of it."

First Aid looks ridiculously relieved. "Thanks."

"No problem."

Wheeljack grins and watches First Aid go, the young mech wandering with a bit of a dazed look in his visor.

Girding his metaphorical loins, Wheeljack enters the dragon's den.

There's no shouting, no airborne pieces of equipment, but the energy field that slams Wheeljack in the face makes him glad for his mask. It's not vile, per se, but it is strong and frustrated.

Ratchet is in the midst of furiously scrubbing down a medberth as though it has offended him in some manner. And it probably has. This _particular_ medberth is the one that's been given the dubious honor of the nickname the Lamborghini Motel, due to the fact it's usual occupants are Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, or Red Alert.

"You don't do anything by halves, do you?" Wheeljack says.

Ratchet's helm whips toward him with a glare so fierce it could be made of lasers. He says nothing, however, concentrating on scrubbing the berth again, the stench of cleanser thick in the air.

Hmm. Must poke him a bit harder.

"Are you really having interfacing difficulties?" Wheeljack asks. "Wrenched cables perhaps? Dented ports? Fried circuits?"

Ratchet growls. "Wheeljack, so help me Primus, if you don't shut the frag up..."

Wheeljack laughs. "You're cute when you're angry. And embarrassed."

"Laugh it up. Just like everyone else."

"Is that what's grinding your gears?" Wheeljack rolls his optics. "You know how rumors are around here. The gossip mill's self-sustaining! Bots talk. It's a fact of life."

"Oh yeah?" Ratchet throws down his rag, turning toward Wheeljack with a devilish sparkle in his optics. "Tell me, Jack. How's Prowl doing these days?"

Oh dear. He's woken the devious side of Ratchet.

Nevertheless, Wheeljack plasters an innocent look over himself. "Far less stressed as far as I can tell." His smirk is luckily hidden behind his facemask. "Several good overloads'll do that for a mech."

Ratchet huffs, folding his arms. "You're no fun to tease."

"That's because I have no shame," Wheeljack says cheerfully and strides further into the room. "You, on the other hand, can be quite the prude."

"I am not!"

"Are so." Wheeljack glances at Ratchet from the corner of his optics. "Otherwise you wouldn't be trying to blame every mech and their brother for seducing the twins. Is it that fragging hard to admit you wanted them?"

Indecision wars on Ratchet's faceplate, obvious to anymech who knows him well enough to look for it. And Wheeljack's known Ratchet for most of his life. He can read Ratchet like an open datapad.

He shakes his helm, pulling up a seat on a nearby berth. "Mech, look at you. Terrified of your own feelings. I honestly don't know what to say."

"I don't have feelings," Ratchet retorts, on the edge of a snarl. "My spark's as black as the Pit."

Whoa. Defensive much?

Wheeljack sighs, resting his chin on his hand. "C'mon, Ratch. You and I both know that's not true."

A long, tense silence whips through the room before Ratchet rolls his optics. "Quit being so logical. That's Prowl's department."

Wheeljack shutters one optic in semblance of a wink. "Well, ya know what they say about mates taking on the characteristics of each other."

"You two did _not _mate."

"Nope. But in the future, who knows?" Wheeljack shrugs. "But we're not talkin' about me and Prowl. We're talking about you and those sexy-aft Lamborghinis. C'mon, Ratch. Curious processors gotta know."

Ratchet unfolds his arms, giving Wheeljack a wry look. "I'm not giving you details. Or asking for help. Ironhide's already offered his services."

"Oh?" Wheeljack perks. "What kind of services?"

"I'm not telling you either, you nosy busybody!" Ratchet says and rushes toward Wheeljack, grabbing him by the shoulders and bodily tugging him off the table. "Now see here, I've got work to do and I'm sure you do, too. So scat!"

He whirls Wheeljack around and gives him a not-subtle push toward the door, nearly making the poor engineer tumble helm over pedes.

Wheeljack digs in with his heels, his arms shooting out and hands catching the frame of the door, stopping Ratchet's forced eviction. "I want to help, too! C'mon. Can't you trust this face?"

"Not one iota!" Ratchet's growl, more amused now than angry, is accompanied by the sudden cessation of his hands on Wheeljack's shoulders.

Except that's also when he rams his massive shoulder into Wheeljack's back, right between the separated wings of his spoiler. A sensitive spot, as Ratchet would know.

Wheeljack yelps and arches forward, spontaneously leaping away from the source of irritation. "Ratchet!" He whirls but the medbay door slams closed with a trio of beeps that indicates it's been locked. Triply.

Only Prowl, Jazz, Red Alert, or Prime could get in now. And Wheeljack doubts any of them will be interested in him making googly optics so he can torment his best friend some more.

Wheeljack crosses his arms, glaring at the door. "You can't hide from me forever!" he hollers, knowing Ratchet can hear him since his bestest buddy in the whole world has also blocked his private comm.

"Am I missing something?"

Wheeljack jumps about four feet in the air, his spark leaping in his chassis. "Prowl! Make some noise, Primus Allmighty!"

His brand new partner grins wryly. "And lose the element of surprise? Something I rely upon to catch errant Autobots and underhanded Decepticons?"

Wheeljack shakes his helm, patting the air with one hand. "Yes, yes. We've all heard the tale of how you were granted your designation." He peers at his partner. "Exactly how long have you been lurking out here?"

"I do not lurk," Prowl retorts, raising both orbital ridges. "I have a legitimate reason to be here." He holds up a hand, bearing a datapad. "I need Ratchet to sign off on these supply requisitions."

Wheeljack laughs. "I think you're making that up."

"I would not," Prowl says, with affront, though there's a curve to his lipplates that imply otherwise.

Wheeljack gestures to the locked medbay. "Then by all means, confront the Hatchet in his lair for some paperwork. He's breathing fire right about now."

Prowl's legendary composure finally cracks and he chuckles. "I doubt that I have anything to fear. Unlike a certain mech I know."

Wheeljack grins behind his mouthplate and presses closer to his partner, indicators flickering. "I can't help that Ratchet doesn't appreciate my good intentions."

"There's a reason everyone on base thinks you have a death wish," Prowl retorts dryly, though his doorwings give a flicker of interest that he just can't hide. "And it's not based on the number of failed experiments."

Wheeljack nuzzles against Prowl's helm, feeling his partner's energy field buzz with affection. His facemask slides aside, glossa slipping out to tease a sensitive audial. "Those weren't failures. They were successful ways that the process did not work."

"However you wish to claim it," Prowl concedes, turning his helm to meet Wheeljack's optics. "Seducing me is not going to distract me from obtaining this signature either."

Wheeljack chuckles. "I'm trying to protect you. Ratchet's in a limb-removal mood and I rather like your limbs. All of them." One hand creeps up behind Prowl, brushing between his door wings where strong metal is laden with sensors. "So is it working?"

Prowl takes a long step away from Wheeljack, putting some distance between them, resetting his vocalizer with an audible click. His doorwings visibly twitch. "My shift ends in an hour."

Oh, yeah. It's working.

"I have some purloined high grade we can share," Wheeljack suggests, tucking his hands behind his back, lest his wandering fingers continue to fulfill their incessant need to explore Prowl's shiny frame.

Prowl inclines his helm, already punching his codes into the override panel for the medbay. "I shall meet you afterward then."

"I'll be waiting." Wheeljack slides his facemask closed, to hide what must be an absolutely goofy expression.

He then takes his leave because the door to the medbay is opening and Prowl, a braver mech than Wheeljack, is striding inside with purpose.

Good luck.

* * *

a/n: I'm still not entirely sure where this fic is going so I'm writing it as it comes. Feedback helps to stir the muses so if you found this at all amusing, I'd love to know. :)


	9. Special Delivery

**Title: Special Delivery**

**Universe: Apple a Day**

**Characters: Sunstreaker, Ratchet, Sideswipe, Tracks, Bluestreak, Trailbreaker, Smokescreen**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None**

**Description: Only Ratchet can silence a room by simply walking into it. **

* * *

"So then I said, that's not _my_ spoiler!"

Laughter rises up from around the table in a raucous round of hilarious approval. Even Sunstreaker manages a snicker or two, though he heard this joke probably a few thousand times over the eons.

Sideswipe grins, snagging his energon and knocking back half of it in one gulp. He's in his element right now, surrounded by friends and relaxing with none of the confusion about Ratchet to so much as rattle him.

Nope. Right now Ratchet and his strange gift and equally strange behavior are far, far from Sideswipe's processor.

Mostly.

"Sideswipe, my mech, you are one screwy bot," Smokescreen says, clapping him on the shoulder in obvious encouragement.

Sideswipe chuckles. "Anything else would be boring," he points out and leans closer to the tactician, voice lowering conspiratorially. "Did I ever tell you about the time I got stuck behind enemy lines?"

He waits for more laughter, for his friends to eagerly prod him for details. Instead, the lingering amusement from before trickles off into quiet. In fact, the whole rec room has gone disturbingly silent.

Sideswipe's backstrut tingles. His superior-officer-sense is acting up.

"No," says a very familiar voice from behind Sideswipe. "Care to share it?"

Only Ratchet can walk into a room and make everybot clamp their mouthplates shut. Oh, he can be the life of the party when he wants, but when Ratchet has _that_ look in his optics, mechs clam up faster than Starscream faced with a fusion cannon.

Not even Prowl has managed this feat of fear yet.

"Uhh. Hi, Ratchet," Sideswipe says as the medic circles around the table so that they are now face to face.

Sideswipe feels not unlike a feral turbofox being tracked by an eager Towers mech.

Ratchet grunts a semi-greeting, nothing in his faceplate reflecting charm or so much as a drop of cheerfulness. In other words, classic Ratchet. "I'm not here to chat."

Uh oh.

Sunstreaker takes this moment to elbow Sideswipe in the side, pinching a coolant line in the process. He also starts hammering at their link but Sideswipe needs every kernel of his processing power right now if he hopes to come out of this alive. Whatever this is.

"Refueling then?" he asks hopefully, optics wide and bright and full of innocence.

"Not quite," Ratchet replies, optics skittering over the crew gathered at the table, all of whom are looking everywhere but at Ratchet as if imagining how to sink through the floor and the volcano and out to freedom on the other side.

Bluestreak hasn't stopped twitching yet. Poor mech's gonna make himself crash if he doesn't relax.

Sideswipe feels a twitch of his own coming on. "Whatever it was, I didn't do it."

Sunstreaker scoffs beside him. "Way to sound innocent, bro."

"Sideswipe hasn't been innocent since the orn he was sparked," Ratchet retorts in a dry tone.

Uneasy chuckling echoes around the table.

Still, Ratchet doesn't offer an explanation. Not that he really _needs_ one to come to the rec room, but seriously, he's freaking everyone out.

Just standing there. Looming. His paint all bright and shiny, gleaming. Making Sideswipe's fingers twitch with the urge to touch. To shove him down to a berth and drag his glossa over every nook and cranny until Ratchet overloads screaming...

Oh yeah. He's not been thinking about Ratchet _at all_.

"So you're not here to chat," Sideswipe ventures when Smokescreen finally nudges him with a knee. "Or refuel..."

"Then no offense Ratchet, but why _are_ you here?" Tracks asks, clearly the bravest of the bunch. But then, he doesn't spend nearly as much time in the medbay as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.

Six pairs of optics focus on the irascible medic.

Ratchet invents loudly and raises his chin. "I came to deliver this," he says and produces a wrapped package from his subspace, the cheerful ribbon curled around it the same shade as the present Sideswipe had opened earlier this week.

He puts it on the table, leaning between Trailbreaker and Bluestreak (who not-so-subtly edge away from the temperamental medic), and pushes it across the table toward the twins. It comes to a stop between them, looking innocuous and enticing in its brown paper wrapping.

"And also, to say that I expect an answer by the end of my shift," Ratchet adds while everyone stares at the box. "Have a good day."

Ratchet turns with enormous dignity and flees the scene.

Sideswipe gapes, jaw dropped and everything, like some bad comedy parody or something.

"What is it?" Bluestreak asks eagerly, one hand smoothing down his armor where it had fluffed up out of pure self-defense. "C'mon. Open it! I wanna know. C'mon, Sideswipe! _Please_."

It's pretty fragging hard to say no to Bluestreak when he looks at you like that. All bright optics and eager grin and fluttering doorwings and perfect pitch of his vocalizer that gets right to your spark...

Sidewipe laughs. "Calm down, Bluestreak." He reaches out, touches the box with one finger and nudges it toward his twin. "Your turn, bro."

"Throw me under the bus why don't you?" Sunstreaker mutters but he takes the box anyway. He doesn't manage to hide the eager trill in his energy field either.

Sideswipe smirks behind his hand. Oh, Sunny. You are so predictable.

He – and everyone else at their table plus a few curious bots in the tables surrounding them – watch as Sunstreaker carefully unties the ribbon, and peels back the brown wrapping paper. Sunstreaker is cautious, as Sideswipe had been last week, as though expecting the box to suddenly explode.

Sideswipe's on bolts and brackets, waiting with even his vents stilled, as Sunstreaker reaches into the box...

"Yeargh!" his twin hollers, loud enough that every bot at their table and the next one over startle in surprise.

Sideswipe leaps to his feet. "Sunny!" His spark's hammering his chamber as he reaches and-

That fragger.

Sunstreaker is grinning up at him and Sideswipe just wants to strangle him right now. Sunny's half his spark so would that be a crime? Really?

"Gotcha."

Sideswipe doesn't hold back, just slugs his brother on the shoulder as hard as he can, leaving a dent behind that Sunstreaker is sure to bitch about later.

"You glitch!"

"And I thought Sideswipe was the prank master," Tracks murmurs, sharing a snicker with Bluestreak.

Sunstreaker chuckles, resting his hand on the lip of the box. "Did you really think Ratchet would hurt us?"

Well, to be honest...

"Come on!" Trailbreaker insists, leaning over the table. "Just tell us what's in the box!"

Sunstreaker obeys, drawing out a handful of small silver objects and dumping them on the table with a noisy clatter. Several skitter onto the floor.

"What are those?" Smokescreen asks, picking up one of the tiny items and bringing it closer to his optics, which cycle down to examine it.

"I think they're called thimbles," Trailbreaker replies, flicking one across the table with a finger. "I saw Carly use one once."

"Why would Ratchet give you thimbles?" Tracks asks.

A very good question.

Sideswipe leans over. "Is there anything else in the box?"

He reaches in, pulling out a datapad, some kind of engine part, an image frame, and a cube of high grade in a rich, magenta hue.

Sideswipe ignores the rest, examining the engine part closely. Recognition dawns and his optics light up. "I know what this is! It's an upgrade for my jetpack."

He'd been begging Prowl for months to allow him to get the upgrade, and nagging Ratchet to install it and whining to Prime about needing it.

"What did you get?" Bluestreak asks Sunstreaker.

Sunstreaker tilts his helm thoughtfully. "Pictures." And not just any pictures either. The frame in his hands keeps cycling through over a dozen of images that represent some of the greatest artistic minds on Cybertron.

"What about the datapad?" Trailbreaker asks.

Sideswipe tucks the upgrade into his subspace and grabs the datapad, powering it on. There's nothing on it but a single document which he scans quickly.

His optics widen.

"It's an invitation."

"For what?" Smokescreen pokes him in the side, right between two armor plates that make Sideswipe squirm.

"To install the upgrade and then go for a drive." Sideswipe's too shocked to even think about keeping this private. It's a little difficult to believe.

What the frag is Ratchet thinking?

Sunstreaker snatches the datapad from Sideswipe's hand, reading the note for himself. "In the presence of a guardian? What the frag does that mean?"

Tracks starts guffawing loud enough to attract the attention of every bot in the rec room.

Sunstreaker frowns. "What's so funny?"

He's starting to get annoyed. Sideswipe can feel it. Not good.

Tracks is practically shaking with mirth. "Oh. You'll find out soon enough. I guess this answers the question of how old the doc-bot is."

Sideswipe arches an orbital ridge. "I don't get it."

"You will." Tracks points at the datapad. "Are you going to accept?"

Sideswipe trades a glance with his brother.

-You want to?- Sunstreaker asks over a private, narrow-band comm.

-I want that upgrade,- Sideswipe replies in kind, and pauses to consider. -And I'm curious as all Pit.-

-Same here.-

-So we agree?-

Sunstreaker picks up the high grade, admiring the delicate hue of it. "Yeah, let's do it."

* * *

a/n: Feedback is welcome and helps feed the muses! :)


	10. Permission Granted

**Title: Permission Granted**

**Characters: Ratchet, Optimus**

**Rating: K**

**Warning: None**

**Description: Optimus feels like he's running a daycare and Ratchet is his most troublesome toddler. **

* * *

Sometimes, Optimus Prime feels like he's running a daycare rather than overseeing a military unit. Granted eighty percent of his so-called military is comprised of former civilians. But they could still act like adults as opposed to unruly sparklings.

Worse that he's still wading through the aftermath of Ratchet's unexpected party.

Mechs who showed up late for their shifts or not at all, forcing him to dole out citations, punishments, and brig-time for a select few.

Skyfire moping around like someone's torn off his wings and stomped on his spark for good measure.

An explosion in Lab E which has been blamed, in part, on Jazz being an effective distraction. Whatever the scrap that's supposed to mean.

No one's fessing up to distilling the high grade though Optimus has his suspicions. The designation starts with Side and rhymes with gripe.

Wheeljack left his lab unlocked. Again.

Some mech had taken advantage of Wheeljack's forgetful nature and had gotten a hold of the engineer's superfoam, pinning a spitting-fire Cliffjumper beneath gallons of the constrictive liquid-turned-solid.

And where is Prime's best investigative officer during all this mess?

Unavailable at this time according to the repeated message on Prowl's personal comm.

To top it all, Ratchet is apparently rampaging around the base, terrorizing minibots and Aerialbots alike.

And speak of Unicron...

"Can I help you?" Optimus asks, not really in a mood to deal with any more nonsense this week.

His command staff has gone utterly bonkers. His scientists have lost their processors, and really, Optimus has had quite enough.

"My aren't you in a mood." Ratchet helps himself to a chair, sitting upon it with great heaviness.

"What's the human phrase regarding a black kettle?"

Ratchet arches one optical ridge. "Something tells me you could use a good overload or six."

Optimus sets down his stylus with a purposefully noisy click. "Is that your medical opinion?"

Tread lightly, Ratchet. Optimus is a hair-trigger away from throwing half his crew in the brig just for some peace and quiet.

"Do you want it to be?"

Optimus stares, his battle mask hiding the unamused set of his mouthplates. "Ratchet, I am quite busy. We can trade witty repartee later. Is there a reason you came to visit?"

His undefeatable, short-tempered, and completely confident chief medical officer fidgets visibly. "I need your permission."

Optimus wavers between exasperation and curiosity. "Go on."

Ratchet twitches, optics dropping briefly to the desk before raising them again. "I wish to court Sideswipe and Sunstreaker."

Optimus reboots his audials. "... Come again?"

A scowl twists Ratchet's faceplate. "You heard me."

Optimus leans back in his chair – the comfortable one he stole from Jazz's office some time ago. It's not like Jazz ever uses his office anyway. "I thought I heard wrong. Exactly _why_ do you need my permission?"

"Because it's tradition."

"I don't recall it being a Prime's duty to sanction all courtships."

Ratchet gives him a long, flat look. "Their creators are gone. Dead. Who knows. So I came to you. Their commanding officer."

"Technically..."

"Ironhide is my accomplice," Ratchet interrupts with a long, aggravated exvent. "He can't count. Conflict of interest."

Accomplice? How does Ratchet keep suborning Optimus' command staff?

He raps his fingers across his desktop, honestly lacking the words to respond. Cybertronian, English, or otherwise.

"Will it fix your recent behavior?" Optimus finally settles for a query.

In other words, will his permission stop Ratchet's foul-tempered rampaging through the base.

Ratchet has the decency to look embarrassed. One pede toes the floor, the other makes him swivel back and forth in the chair.

"It... should."

Optimus realizes that Ratchet is uncertain. Afraid even.

And Ratchet's usual response to his fear is to be loud, brash, and angry.

Suddenly, it all makes sense.

Optimus palms his face, battle mask sliding aside.

No, he's not running a daycare. He's principal of a fragging high school.

"Is there some ritualistic phrasing I need to use?"

Ratchet's mouthplates quirk into a grin. "Not really. I just need to satisfy my coding."

"Fine." Optimus waves a hand at his chief medical officer. "You have my permission. Need it in writing?"

"No sir." Ratchet's helm dips, self-abashed. "Thank you."

"I'd say anytime but I hope that the madness is going to end sooner rather than later." Optimus picks up his stylus again, dragging his datapad closer.

"I'll do my best."

"See that you do."

Ratchet levers himself out of the chair, turning toward the open doorway.

"And Ratchet?"

The medic pauses, half-turned toward his Prime.

"Good luck."

He honestly means it, too. Ratchet's going to need all the luck he can get if he hopes to rope in those two mechs.

Ratchet nods and takes his leave.

Optimus returns to his paperwork. Sadly, the only thing that currently makes sense in his world right now.

* * *

a/n: Special thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this piece of humorous romance. I'm glad you all have enjoyed it so much. It makes me smile to know that someone is enjoying my writing.


	11. Distractions

a/n: See? I didn't forget about this fic! I just got distracted by shiny new pairings, NaNoWriMo, and other things. I promise we'll get to see the Twins' first date with Ratchet and who Skyfire is pining for and if poor Optimus will ever get interfaced.

Until then, enjoy a slice of WheeljackxProwl flirting. :)**  
**

**Title: Distractions**

**Characters: WheeljackxProwl, Optimus Prime**

**Universe: G1, Apple a Day 11**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: light exhibitionism**

**Description: Wheeljack is a new temptation Prowl doesn't want to resist. **

**Set sometime between Poking Dragons with Sticks and Permission Granted. **

* * *

"I see you survived. With all limbs intact even."

Prowl pauses as the familiar vocals trail after him the very moment he steps out of the medbay. He turns, spotting Wheeljack lurking just around the corner. Coward.

"Ratchet is not a fan of creating more work for himself," Prowl replies, a smile curving his lips. "Nor do I make a habit of provoking him."

Wheeljack laughs, his indicators lighting up an array of colors, reflecting his amusement. "You should. It's quite fun."

Prowl turns back toward his office, Wheeljack falling into step beside him. "I'm beginning to suspect you have a penchant for both danger and pain."

"Are you calling me a masochist?"

Prowl's doorwings twitch. "If the cog fits..."

Wheeljack bumps shoulders with him. "You've been spending far too much time listening to Bluestreak babble."

Prowl arches an orbital ridge, shooting his lover a look. "And you're avoiding my observation."

Wheeljack skips ahead of him, drawing to a halt and forcing Prowl to stop as well. "Maybe it's not my kinks I'm interested in," the engineer says, leaning one arm against the wall and effectively blocking Prowl's path. "Maybe I want to know what makes _your_ spark surge."

"Ever the scientist."

"Mmm. I do have theories."

Prowl's lips twitch but he conceals his amusement carefully, tucking away his datapad so that his hands are free. "Such as?"

Wheeljack's gaze shifts past his helm, to the doorwings at his shoulders. "Those for one. Word around the Ark is that they're quite sensitive."

Any other mech would have been offended. Prowl, however, knows just how overcharged Wheeljack had been that night. "You don't remember?"

"I didn't get to explore like I wanted."

A thread of mischief begins to wind its way through Prowl's spark. He inclines his helm, twitching first one doorwing, then the other, noticing how Wheeljack's optics follow the minor movement. "Now's your chance."

A bubble of laughter echoes in the engineer's chassis. He leans closer, increasing the sensation of being cornered, though they are of height. "Tempter."

Prowl glances to the connecting hallway, one that leads away from the command offices and straight to the officer's barracks. "You have somewhere better to be?"

Technically, he's off-duty right now. Just because he can usually be found working in his office long after his shift has ended doesn't mean he needs to follow that pattern tonight. It's about time he started indulging in some of that down time Ratchet's been trying to convince him to take.

Wheeljack's indicators glow a deep, inviting blue. "Not for all the uranium in the world," he says, leaning closer, mask nuzzling against the side of Prowl's neck.

Their energy fields brushed together, Wheeljack's hot and heavy with charge, Prowl's own frazzled and intrigued. He's got years and years of overloads stored up, stress making his systems eager to dispel the extra charge.

"Are you eager to feed the rumor mill or can you wait until we get to my quarters?" Prowl asks, and surprises himself with the husky nature of his vocals.

Wheeljack chuckles, fingers brushing over Prowl's side, where an interface panel hides beneath the curve of his armor. "I don't know. It might be interestin' to see what happens if someone else catches us."

"Exhibitionist?" Prowl asks, making his panel twitch beneath Wheeljack's fingers, as though he's having difficult keeping it closed.

"Something like that." Wheeljack's mask presses harder against his neck cables, vocalizations creating a light buzz. Their frames are in direct contact now, from chestplate to abdominal array. "Maybe I just like to see circuits snap."

"Imagine the work that would create for Ratchet."

Wheeljack laughs again. "It would be worth the wrench to the helm." Charge zaps from his fingers straight against Prowl's port, making him judder and the panel pop right open. "Want to be daring?"

Prowl's cooling fans kick on with a telling whuff, sucking air into his overheated frame, his energy field rising and crashing down on the teasing engineer. "You are going to be the end of me."

"That wasn't a no."

It's Prowl's turn to laugh, though it's a quiet bubble from his vocalizer. He works an arm behind the engineer, fingers exploring, finding the base of those winglets and stroking them accordingly.

A full frame shudder spreads across Wheeljack, his energy field spiking. "Ohhh. I'm startin' to think the only circuits you want to see blown are your own."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Prowl asks, gathering charge at the tips of his fingers and plunging them into the gap at Wheeljack's dorsal armor, sparking across rarely touched sensors.

The engineer arches, pressing hard against him, pleasure flooding his energy field. "So not going to make it to your quarters. I'm about to take you here, hard and fast, against this wall. Give Red Alert a real show."

Prowl smirks. "What makes you think he won't enjoy it?"

Wheeljack laughs, ex-vents washing heated air over Prowl's armor. "You know what they say about the quiet ones...?"

"They eventually find themselves in the brig for inappropriate displays of affection?"

Prowl jerks at the unexpected voice and both he and Wheeljack startle, whirling to find Optimus Prime standing there, giving them a look that somehow mixed amusement and impatience. As though their leader doesn't quite know what to think or how to respond to it.

Wheeljack stammers.

Prowl recovers himself smoothly. "Excuse us, sir," he says, grabbing Wheeljack's hand and giving it a firm tug. "We were just on our way to the rec room."

"Sure you were." Prowl is sure that Prime is laughing at both of them behind that battle mask. "By all means, don't let me keep you."

It is with enormous dignity that Prowl pulls Wheeljack along with him, helm held high as he walks past their Prime and around the curve of the hallway. Only then does Prowl hang a left, intending to double-back toward his quarters. The charge built in his circuits would not be denied.

Wheeljack, however, is still shaking.

And it isn't until the engineer suddenly bursts into laughter that Prowl realizes it isn't out of anxiety.

"Oh, the look on his face!" Wheeljack gasps out, fingers squeezing Prowl's as amusement rippled through his energy field. "Poor Prime."

Prowl's lips twitch. "You succeeded in your goals. I do believe you may have fried a circuit or two."

Wheeljack sends a burst of charge through their clasped hands. "Give me a chance and I'll fry half a dozen more," he purrs.

Prowl shivers, more than a little relieved when the door to his quarters comes into view. "Challenge accepted," he declares, keying the door open.

The engineer's vocal indicators flash brightly at him before Prowl drags Wheeljack inside, door slamming shut with a click of the lock.

At least they're out of the hall now.

* * *

a/n: Surprisingly, this piece wasn't hard to write which I expected it to be considering my difficulty in writing Prowl (and Wheeljack for that matter). Comments on characterization are always welcome. Comments on writing style period are helpful.

See you next chapter! I hope you enjoyed.


	12. First Date

**Title: First Date**

**Characters: Ratchet, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Ironhide**

**Universe: G1, Apple a Day 12**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None **

**Description: Ratchet and the twins have their first date. Ironhide supervises. **

* * *

"There," Sideswipe hears from behind him, along with a subtle click, though he doesn't feel much of anything thanks to the sensor block. "How does that feel?"

He chuckles and wonders if anyone else is catching the uneasy tremor to his voice. "Numb?" he hazards.

Ratchet's energy field teases at his own, echoing amusement mixed with exasperation. He does something else, there's another click, and then sensation floods through Sideswipe's sensory net. His HUD runs a diagnostic and immediately locates the new hardware, integrating it into his systems.

Sideswipe rolls his shoulders experimentally.

"What about now?" Ratchet asks.

He rolls his neck cables, too. In fact, Sideswipe flexes his entire upper torso, feeling the linkages for his jet pack shift with him. They don't feel as stiff as they used to, and they are definitely lighter. There's not as much of a draw on his power systems either.

It's gotta be twice as efficient now.

"It's great," Sideswipe says, unable to help his enthusiastic grin. He winks one optic at Sunstreaker, who's standing across from him with arms folded across his chestplate. "Those Seekers aren't gonna know what to do with me."

Ratchet's palm hits him square in the middle of his backplate. "If you could refrain from riding Seekers for at least two weeks, you won't end up in my medbay."

But what if that's where Sideswipe wants to be?

He grins cheekily, fluttering the armor across his back. "Whatever ya say, Ratch."

"And don't call me that."

Sunstreaker huffs a ventilation. "Good luck with that," he says, rolling his optics. "I'm still training him to call mechs their proper designations."

"It's how I show I care," Sideswipe says.

"No, you just like being a nuisance," Ironhide says and Sideswipe hunches his shoulders.

He's _almost_ managed to forget that Ironhide is here, watching them, supervising them, for whatever the frag reasons Ratchet's cooked up in that processor of his. Ironhide's been designated their guardian. Again, Sideswipe has no idea why this is necessary. It's part of whatever weird-as-slag game Ratchet is playing.

Ratchet chuckles. "Yes, there is that," he says, of course agreeing with Ironhide. He pats Sideswipe on the back again. "You're good to go, Sideswipe. Just take it easy. I'm serious."

"Yeah, yeah. I got ya." He turns around, stretching his arms above his head, loosening kinked cables and letting a rush of fresh air flow over his plating. "So how about that drive?" Anticipation had been a flutter in his spark all afternoon.

Ironhide chuckles. "Ya might want ta rethink that."

Sideswipe can all but _hear_ Ratchet bristle. "And why the frag should I do that?"

The old warrior taps his comm unit. "Check the weather." Which would have to be done by contacting whoever was on duty. The medbay is so deep in the volcano, they can't just look out a window.

Sunstreaker lets loose a horrified gasp. "It's raining," he says, utterly aghast.

Sideswipe wilts. If it's raining, then nothing short of a direct order from Prowl or Prime will get his brother out those doors. Oh, he'll go outside in the mud and muck if he's ordered to, for patrol or something, but never for a pleasure drive. And risk getting his finish dulled? Perish the thought!

"Like a typhoon," Ironhide confirms with a nod of his helm, energy field radiating amusement. He's far too entertained for Sideswipe's liking.

"Of course it is," Ratchet mutters, field flaring with irritation.

"What? You didn't have a backup plan?" Ironhide teases and Sideswipe, sensing danger, wisely moves out from between the two older mechs, taking refuge beside his brother.

Ratchet's optics cycle down. "Of course I don't," he says in a low tone, a note of warning present that Sideswipe and many other Autobots have learned to beware.

Ironhide, old warrior that he is, seems to have torn out those cautionary protocols a long time ago. Either that or he's a masochist.

"You're pretty bad at this courtin' thing, ain'tcha?" Ironhide says.

Ratchet growls low in his vocalizer.

"We don't have to go for a drive," Sunstreaker says, over Ratchet's glare and Ironhide's smirk. "The rec room should be pretty deserted."

"I like lunch," Sideswipe offers, because he's still pretty slagging curious about what's going on and especially curious about courting.

Ironhide looks pleased with himself. "Seems like the ball's in yer court, medic."

Gathering dignity about himself like one might a gold-encrusted cloth, Ratchet draws himself to his full height. "It just so happens that I am in need of a refuel myself," he says, and makes a pointed effort not to look at anyone. "Whether or not any of you join me is your decision."

He makes for the door.

Sideswipe gives Ironhide an askance look. "Is that an invitation?"

Ironhide roars with laughter. "Ratchet's idea of one, yeah." He gives both twins a long, steady look. "I'm tellin' ya now. If ya have any reservations, now's the time to turn around and walk away."

Sunstreaker throws his hands into the air before Sideswipe can twitch. "Reservations? We still don't know what the slag is going on!"

Ironhide jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "Well, yer answers are stalkin' out that door as we speak. I'm just the guardian."

"What does that even _mean_?" Sideswipe demands, exasperation coloring his vocals.

Ironhide grins, the sort of smirk a mech gets when he knows something everyone else doesn't. "I get to make sure Ratchet doesn't do anything inappropriate."

Sideswipe boggles; Sunstreaker stares. "_What_?" Sideswipe demands.

The warrior mech dissolves into boisterous laughter. "Protecting your virtue is all part of my job description now."

Ironhide couldn't have flabbergasted Sideswipe anymore if he'd tried. Both of them, actually. Sunstreaker is struck speechless and Sideswipe splutters. Words, he can't form them!

"That doesn't... I don't... why would...?" Sideswipe's face contorts, his processor aching in an attempt to process the new information.

Sunstreaker hooks an elbow around his arm, dragging him out of the medbay. "Come on, bro," he says as Sideswipe stumbles along with him. "We'll ask Ratchet ourselves."

"But..." Words fail him yet again.

Ironhide follows, still radiating amusement. He's enjoying himself far too much for Sideswipe's comfort.

They find Ratchet in the rec room, a noisily and boisterously occupied rec room as a matter of fact. Is there even anyone on shift? Primus.

He immediately picks out all of the Aerialbots, the Protectobots, and the Dinobots. There's a gaggle of minibots in the center of the room, a cluster of Spec Ops in the nearest corner, and off to himself like a great, looming shadow, is Skyfire, frowning over his energon cube.

They work their way through the crowd, Sunstreaker still clinging to him like an octopus. Ratchet's tucked himself away in the corner, at a table that seats four with three energon cubes waiting.

"Where's mine?" Ironhide demands as the twins take a seat on either side of Ratchet, sharing glances over the table.

Answers. Answers must be had.

"You get your own, slagger," Ratchet retorts.

"Ungrateful aft," Ironhide grumbles, crossing his arms. "And here I am, helpin' ya out of the kindness of mah spark."

"Oh, you selfless angel," Ratchet says in a mocking tone. "How will I ever repay you?"

Ironhide's smirk turns lecherous and a shudder races down Sideswipe's backstrut at the sight. "Come to think of it, I've got a kink in my-"

"Questions!" Sideswipe all but yelps, waving one hand in the air if only to cut off that line of conversation that should never, ever see the light of day. "We have questions!"

"And maybe I have answers," Ratchet grunts, staring long and hard at Ironhide before sliding his optics back toward the twins.

Throwing his hands into the air, Ironhide turns around. "I'm gonna go get that cube now," he says, and pushes back into the noisy crowd.

Sideswipe grins, more than a little relieved that the disturbing near-flirtation between Ironhide and Ratchet has come to an end. "Are we allowed to be unsupervised?"

Ratchet snorts, pushing his own cube around the table and not drinking it. "You don't even know what that means."

"Then explain," Sunstreaker insists with an oddly serious look to his faceplate.

Ratchet performs a heavy in-vent, like he's gearing himself up for something difficult. "I thought it would be obvious by now," he says, toying with his energon.

Sunstreaker's optics cycle down. "Well, it's not."

Sideswipe winces, trying to send calming waves across their bond. Sunstreaker's getting a bit testy which is never a good thing, especially when it comes to Ratchet, who responds to belligerence in kind.

Ratchet seems to slump in his chair, though he does give Sunstreaker a warning look. "It's simple," he says. "Courting is how I show you two I'm serious."

"You're always serious," Sideswipe says, trying to lighten the mood with a cheesy grin.

It falls flat.

"About partnering with you, idiot," Ratchet snaps, then clamps his mouth shut, radiating guilt. He snatches up his cube and drains half of it in one gulp.

Sideswipe looks at his brother, who returns the glance with equal surprise. They turn, in tandem, and stare at Ratchet. He can't seriously mean...?

"You mean...?" Sideswipe trails off.

"I must be out of my processor," Ratchet mumbles and rubs his faceplate with one hand. "Yes, I intend to try a relationship with you. Both of you."

Sideswipe gapes. Oh, sure. They've both thought about wanting it. But neither him nor Sunstreaker thought it would actually happen.

They're a pair of twin frontliners with a few thoughts to rub together and an aptitude for breaking the rules. Ratchet's frothed at the mouth for as many times as he he's had to put them together, pulling miracles out of thin air.

Well, it's certainly an explanation for Ratchet's behavior lately. The gifts and such. But it's still a shock.

"So," Ratchet continues, when the silence stretches long enough that awkward is no longer avoidable, "since this is our first, official date, you have the option of rejecting my courtship."

Rejecting? Why on Earth would they do that?

Sideswipe makes a grab for his cube to give his hands something to do. "Um, okay," he says. "But if you wanted us, why go through all of this?"

"It's not like we're hard to get in the berth or anything," Sunstreaker adds.

Sideswipe winces again. Though it is true. They like to interface, whether it be each other or a willing partner. Pleasure is much better than pain and with this war, pain is what they get a majority of the time.

Anger and something else makes Ratchet's faceplate flush, his field warbling. "I don't want another empty frag, you glitches," he hisses and looks away, fingers rapping a nonsense rhythm on the tabletop. "That's my point."

Oh.

Sideswipe's optics cycle wider.

_Oh_. Well, that certainly changes things.

The sound of a mech loudly resetting his vocalizer breaks the startled silence. Sideswipe doesn't even have to look to know it's Ironhide.

"Did I miss something?" Ironhide asks.

"No," Ratchet says and scrambles to his pedes, managing to look both guilty and embarrassed all at once. "So that's my offer," he adds, louder and with a pointed look at Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. "Take it or leave it."

He then pulls something from his subspace and sets it on the table. Two somethings, actually, pushing one of each to Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.

"Spoons?" Sideswipe asks, more than a little confused.

"Wooden spoons?" Sunstreaker clarifies, equally baffled as he picks up one of the utensils and twirls it with his thumb and forefinger.

"You're smart mechs," Ratchet says. "You'll figure it out."

Ratchet leaves, vanishing into the crowd of Autobots as though he has some training in Spec Ops or something. Sideswipe is left staring at his wooden spoon, wondering what the frag he's supposed to do with it.

"And here's my gift," Ironhide says, vocals trembling as though he's trying to hold back his laughter. "For good luck." He tosses a datapad onto the table between them.

"What is it?" Sideswipe asks, giving the datapad a wary look. It never hurts to be too careful when it comes to Ironhides bearing gifts. Kind of like Ratchets, actually.

"Something you'll be needing. Trust me." Ironhide's grin widens, optics sparkling at them. "I'm rootin' for ya, brats."

Ironhide turns and leaves, too.

The datapad sits on the table between them. Sideswipe stares at it. Sunstreaker wibbles and finally snatches it, powering it up.

"Seriously," Sideswipe says, turning his spoon over and over. He scans it for good measure but there's nothing special about it. "What's up with the spoon?"

"It's a manual," Sunstreaker replies.

"The spoon?" Sideswipe frowns.

Exasperation flashes across their bond, Sunstreaker following it up with a blat of static to his personal comm. "Not the spoon, you glitch. The datapad." He holds up said datapad, waving it through the air. "It's the _Idiot's Guide to Courtin_g."

Sideswipe launches himself over the table, snatching it from his brother's hand. Sunstreaker scowls, but gives up the datapad.

This, Sideswipe decides as he powers it on, is really going to come in handy. Ratchet's not going to be the only one with the upperhand anymore.

The game is _on_.

* * *

a/n: I've got another piece in the works, with some Jazz/Perceptor action and a bigger hint as to what's up with Skyfire. And after that... well, I'm not sure yet. I still don't know where this is going. lol

Feedback is welcome and appreciated!


	13. Achy Circuits

**Title: Achy Circuits**

**Universe: G1, Apple a Day  
**

**Characters: JazzxPerceptor, Skyfire**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None**

**Description: Skyfire's in a mood. Perceptor's a tad bit sore. And Jazz aims to solve both problems. **

* * *

This substance is absolutely fascinating. It's molecular structure is similar to few things Perceptor has ever seen. Already his processor is supplying him potential uses. This could-

Perceptor frowns. Twitches. Shifts. And winces.

Primus, but he is sore. He aches from helm to pede, his circuits stretched thin, his fuel pump sluggishly working, his spark spinning a sated hum.

He cannot concentrate at all. This is very distracting.

Perceptor shifts again, trying to find some position that does not seem to exacerbate his symptoms. He wants nothing more than to crawl into a berth and get some recharge. For once.

Ratchet will probably laugh at him. All his time spent trying to get Perceptor to recharge and it's a night of repeated overloads that actually ends up working.

Jazz is quite insatiable. For that matter, Perceptor had been as well. There is something rather addicting about the sensation of Jazz's hands on him, the curl of arousal, the snap-bite of charge licking across his circuits...

Perceptor twitches, calculations falling by the wayside. Oh, bother. At this rate, he'll never get anything done.

"Can you not be still?"

Perceptor startles, optics cycling at the unexpected and rather rude burst of conversation coming from his lab partner.

He turns his helm, looking at Skyfire who isn't looking at him. "Pardon?" Perceptor asks, and reaches out with his energy field, trying to read Skyfire's. He might as well be questioning a rock, however, because Skyfire is drawn-cold.

"You're twitching," Skyfire says, staring solidly at his datapad. "I can hear the rattle in your plating from here. It's a distraction."

Perceptor reboots his audials. Skyfire is one of the most patient, kind-sparked mechs that Perceptor has ever had the honor of befriending.

This is not normal behavior.

"I apologize," Perceptor says, and sets down the substance sample. "Skyfire, are you all right?"

The shuttle's wings flick in a distinct rhythm that Perceptor has learned to identify as agitation. "Yes."

Perceptor doesn't need a detector to know that is a lie.

He frowns. "I only ask because you seem to be upset about something." He pauses, considering the circumstances. "Would this have anything to do-"

"Perceptor, I am _fine_," Skyfire interrupts, shooting Perceptor an annoyed look as he bursts to his pedes, shoving his stool out behind him. The poor shuttle's helm nearly hits the ceiling, but he ducks his helm in time. "I think I will, however, find somewhere else to finish my work."

His optics track Skyfire as the shuttle makes his way across the lab, his pace suggesting a hasty escape rather than a normal exit.

"Are you certain?" Perceptor asks, his frown deepening. "It would be no trouble for me to-"

"It's fine," Skyfire interrupts, yet again, and palms the panel to the door. He draws up short. "Oh, it's you."

Perceptor leans back on his stool, catching a glimpse of black and white plating beyond Skyfire's bulk.

"Hey, 'Fire," a mech says in Jazz's distinctive vocal tones. "Ya in a hurry or somethin'? Was kind of a cold welcome, yeah?"

"My apologies," Skyfire retorts and brushes past the third-in-command with a very agitated flick of his wing panels.

He's gone before Jazz can manage so much as an offended ventilation.

"Primus," Jazz says, stepping fully into the lab and allowing the door to slide shut behind him. "What climbed up his thrusters and set up house?"

"I do not know." Perceptor hunches on his own stool, discomfort etching itself through his lines. "He has been, shall I say _cranky_, all morning."

"Cranky? Skyfire? That does not compute." Jazz's grin has yet to fade, however.

He sidles right up next to Perceptor, helm nuzzling against the microscope's right shoulder. "He isn't glitching?"

"I do not think so." While Jazz's visit is welcome, the touch is not. He feels far too sensitive and Perceptor subtly shifts away. "He is upset about something."

"Hmm." Perceptive as always, Jazz tilts his helm away, though his energy field lightly caresses Perceptor's. "Sounds like somethin' I need to investigate."

Perceptor's frown melts into a smile. "If you would please. I am concerned."

"Then Jazz is on the case." Jazz grins and lightly drags a finger down the length of Perceptor's arm. "Now I gotta ask if you're all right?"

"Nothing that won't self-repair in time," Perceptor assures him.

"Or," Jazz says, swinging around to put himself between Perceptor and his lab table, "I could speed up the process." He pulls something out of subspace and juggles it back and forth between his hands.

Perceptor raises his orbital ridges. "I am a little afraid to ask."

Jazz laughs. "My own personal recipe. A little bit of sensor gel, a dab of high-powered nanites, some of this and that, all swirled about in a blend of fancy wax."

Perceptor's fingers twitch. Intrigued, he makes a grab for the container, if only to scan the contents. "Sunstreaker would be jealous."

"He helped me mix it up," Jazz retorts with a roll of his optics and leans forward, ex-vents ghosting over Perceptor's plating. "I'll comm you the recipe."

How quickly Jazz has come to understand him.

"Much appreciated."

"On another note," Jazz continues, pulling back and leaning on the desk, hands braced against the edge behind him. "Word on the street says you wanted to go to some kind of lecture up in Seattle."

Perceptor's spark skips a beat. "Yes. I intended to ask Beachcomber but he has become otherwise occupied."

"Ya could always ask me."

"But astrophysics is of little interest to you," Perceptor replies, unable to hide the surprise in his energy field.

Amusement rumbles in Jazz's chassis. "Maybe not. But I know what does."

Perceptor hums thoughtfully, reaching past Jazz for the datapad he had abandoned earlier. He can't recall if he'd saved his progress or not. "The drive?"

Jazz laughs, turning his helm to stare pointedly at Perceptor's arm. "No. Spendin' time with my new partner."

"_Oh_."

Well, now Perceptor feels foolish, and perhaps a tad embarrassed as well. He can be so dense sometimes.

His faceplates flush with heat, indecision warring heavily inside of him. He wants to take Jazz up on his offer. But the ache in his circuits and the utter haste of all that has happened lately makes him want to take a step back.

"Jazz, I..." Perceptor trails off, words failing him when they are usually his best weapon.

"Perceptor."

Jazz's vocals, confident and kind, encourage Perceptor to lift his optics and meet the bright visor of his newly acquired partner.

"It's okay," Jazz says and reaches out, hand gently folding over Perceptor's own. "I'm on the same datapad. Slow 'n steady, yeah?"

Tension bleeds out of his hydraulics. Tension that Perceptor hadn't even realized was present.

He smiles, relaxing visibly. "Yes."

"Good." Jazz holds up the tin of special wax again. "With that being said, you still look in need of some relief."

Warmth suffuses Perceptor's spark. "Regretfully so. While the night's activities were pleasurable, the aftereffects are akin to a high grade induced overcharge."

"Percy, you have no idea how much of a compliment you just gave me," Jazz replies with a laugh and a playful flash of his visor.

His faceplate heats again. "I was being truthful."

"That makes it all the more genuine." Jazz takes his hand, pulling it up to his mouth, brushing his lipplates over the sensor-lined tips. "My place or yours?"

"Yours," Perceptor replies, a shiver dancing down his backstrut. "I am afraid my quarters are still in disarray."

As is his lab, thus the reason he's sharing with Skyfire at the moment. Of course, the state of his private lab is entirely Jazz's fault.

"Your tendency toward clutter will never cease to amuse me," Jazz says, and presses a kiss to Perceptor's palm. "I am glad you took Ratchet up on that bet."

Tingles spread outward, from where Jazz's lips brush across his plating. Perceptor smiles. "As am I."

* * *

a/n: Not as humorous as the others but still important for all the plotty bits it drops. :)

I'm still working on plotting this thing out so I'm not sure when the next update is but rest assured, it will not be abandoned.


End file.
